It took place

in an amnesiac haze and fury,

numberless nights

of lightningspeak and opiate rabble,

rocketfuel and anti-freeze, bright ribbons

of noise amounting to worry stones

indenting the soft pink center of palms,

on and on and on, fugitive motion

and tensions arrested in space,

rooftop calisthenics and

balcony-blown jigs (clothing

and skin optional ), hell’s bells

and aeronautic scarves modeled

by Lana de Sade, and Heaven’s 24 7

bodegas foil-wrapping promises

to go, on & on & on, all was a mythical riot,

a Saturnalian blast and romp that flirted

with stratosphere, pecked

at the cirrus lips of ether, slapped &

 pinched dreamcake-angel-bums,

and then the return to earth,

wasted, deprived, the worn-out edges

of a faded post-script.

It was the blest of times, and it was

the blest of times, for you see, no matter

the stains or finish or overlay,

no matter the smear campaign or tides of smudge,

the blessings exist imperturbably beneath

whatever veneer is thrown up

whenever whyever